The war was coming to an end. Good, thought Anchamlan. He was ready for the calm collectiveness of life without war. He had never been against war when he was a child. He remembered cheering for soldiers as they went to face their impending doom in the killing arena's called battlefields and he remembered wishing that he could be just like them. Stupid wish. Quite simply stupid. Wonderful, and glorious as well, but stupid just the same.
He now knew what those poor men had faced, but then he remembered yet again how much luckier they were. They had gone off to fight creatures that they had thought of as stupid and moronic, though the Sprites weren't stupid at all, just cold, cruel, and bloodthirsty. But Anchamlan knew that it is easier to fight someone who is smart but you think is stupid therefore making it obvious in your mind that you will win than it is to walk out knowing that you will die because the enemy is smarter than any that goes to war, save the elves.
Anchamlan swore to himself. Curse the bloody Dwarves. Who invented those filthy beasts anyways? The thing that did must have been in a really foul mood to end up with such an ugly creature, he resolved, a bitter look upon his face. An arrow whizzed by his head carrying a ball of magic, most likely death, but Anchamlan dodged it nonchalantly. Let the next man in its way die, but not him. Perhaps, if he were lucky, it would blast a filthy Dwarf to pieces instead. He sighed. He knew that he would not be that lucky. It was from the Dwarves that he had learned to dodge the arrows.
Anchamlan looked around quietly. He watched as the tiny ogres that dared to call themselves men beat his soldiers. He shrugged it off. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to his destination. He watched almost bored as a Dwarf swung an axe above his head almost directly behind him, then he swung around and stabbed him. He winced at the Dwarfs face, so full of surprise and agony. He hated killing almost as much as he hated Dwarves.
Spinning around he continued on his journey, weaving battles, feeling only a slight guilt as he let the cries for help fall thick around him. It was their fault for getting into battles they could not handle. He was so sick of these over-exalted privates waltzing in and thinking they could take on the Dwarven army one-handed. Well now most of them got to try this method out first hand, along with one-legged and one-eyed. Their fault, he reassured himself, completely their fault.
Finally it came into view. The castle of Lady Skansea. The castle that this meager army was trying to protect. And I emphasize the word ‘trying', he thought grimly to himself. There were few soldiers here, most had been sent out for battle, but suddenly he saw something on the side of the building. It was a... A Dwarf, scaling the castle wall up to The Tower. The very place where Lady Skansea and her ladies-in-waiting were hiding. Anchamlan ran towards the wall. The man was using the thick vines growing up the side of The Tower to get up. Anchamlan sighed.